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The Finger Story by Don Bernal

 

    I can pick up a book with two fingers. I think that's quite a talent. The ones I use, of course, are my index fingers; I'm not going to insult your intelligence by proclaiming I use my pinkies for instance. No, no, I use my index fingers, which are quite strong, especially mine. They just clamp on the front and back covers of that book and lift the hell out of it. It's impressive to see; I don't think I'll ever be tired to seeing that. Over and over again.

    I suppose people think me odd; well, I'm not. As arguments go, I usually prove my sanity quite nicely. I see long fingers as gifts; their lifting, a talent. Who wouldn't use and explore a talent? Why waste a gift when you can show it to all? No, most arguments I receive are merely wistful regrets of unfulfilled fingers. I'm not gloating; I just shake my head at the skill-less, underappreciated digits.

    But once.

    Once, a short time ago, as I was performing my stupefying trick, amid a polite but earnest applause, a little girl managed to stand right in front of me. She gazed at me with large round eyes, the look on her face seemed troubled and confuse. Finally, as the applause died down, she leaned in a little closer, and asked me, "Why don't you use your whole hand?". She seemed embarrassed at the question, and quickly leaned back. I stared at her, then cried.